Honestly, why doesn’t somebody just shoot her?

You know — like, 14 months ago, when I was sitting in that French place at that farmer’s market with Peitor out in LA, eating taste-temptingly delicious little chocolate pastries, drinking espressos, laughing hysterically…

That part where I said:  “Come on, Peitor, let’s start a production company and just make these films ourselves!”

Or when, after he finally agreed because I badgered him into it, and then it became apparent that, even while both of us are creating the stories together, he is clearly going to direct this stuff — because he’s actually shot movies before, like, on real film and got awards in film festivals and stuff — and I am clearly going to be the person who gets all the little ducks in a row, because I have always been the person who puts all the little ducks in a row…

Well, somebody should have just shot me. Right then.

Jesus Christ, you know? That fucking film budget seminar this evening was intense.

ME (texting Peitor the minute the seminar was over and while my brain was still almost functioning): “Man, Peitor. That fucking film budget seminar was intense.”

HIM: “Great!!”

Jesus, you know?? I was hoping for a little more — I don’t know. Hot cocoa or something. Shit. What the heck am I getting myself into?

I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m doing it again.

Like, back when I was showing Sandra my screenplay for a TV movie based on the life of Helen LaFrance (which won a writing award at a film festival), and she said, “We should make this a play. Something simple. A one-woman show with a few musicians who can sometimes voice a couple characters; something easy that we can put on in a church auditorium up in Harlem…”

And then, right here at my little mini-desk, I turned it into this multi-million dollar budget ordeal and my accountant had to sit me down (metaphorically, over the phone) the other day and say, “Um. I’m going to send you some sample contracts, Marilyn, and I want you to read them over very carefully so that you can get a better idea of what you’re really getting into here, at the various levels…” Shit.

Somebody should have just shot me then, too. I mean, way back at that point when I thought it was a good idea to write about Helen’s life.

Or even yesterday, when I was finally talking over the phone with the director of Tell My Bones about the recent changes I had made to the script, which deal with lynchings and slave auctions during, you know, a musical number… he said, “You’ve taken a lot of risks here, but good job. You’re really brave. I’m so proud of you.”

What?

Shit, you know? Should maybe somebody be shooting me now, too? Before some sort of weird fallout hits the proverbial fan? What did he mean by “risks”?

Man. I am in need of some sort of vacation from life right now.  I really am. I cannot emphasize that enough. I’m getting a wee bit stressed.

Why am I always just out here, doing this stuff? Making my life so intensely complicated, when all I really, really want to do is just sit alone in my room and write. I don’t even need to get published anymore.  The writing part of it is enough. Emotionally, anyway. Why does everything always just grow into this whole other thing when it comes to me and my brain and all my marvelous ideas?

Life just fucking confounds me.

I used to date this Line Producer in NYC. And one day when I was picking her up on location, she said, “Do you want to see one of these budgets? Are you interested?” I was. So I said, yes. And she said, “These numbers are confidential, but this is what it looks like.” And then she explained what all the various numbers meant, and it all seemed super cool & interesting, because we were lovers and getting ready to go back to her place and drink red wine and fuck like little sex-starved bunnies… Cute bunnies.

Well it was 35 years ago, but maybe I can look into sleeping with her again and see if I can persuade her to do all these fucking mind-altering budgets. Because I’m sure not feeling really super cool & interested about doing it.

Christ. Life goes on, though, doesn’t it.

And my script-writing session with Peitor today was one of those tricky ones, where we had to, you know, not step on each other’s toes. And I couldn’t figure out if I had a weird attitude today or what? Where was it coming from? The tension. I mean, we got very good work done today, but it felt a little bit like work. It was just one of those days.

And I had started my day in a really frisky and cheerful mood!! Goddammit!! What happened???

Well, I haven’t done Booty Core yet today, so I still need to get that done. Actually, it will probably make me feel a little bit better. Because I am just feeling so indescribably DOWN right now, that anything will probably be a tiny step in a better direction.

I’m going to close with this, and try not to cry, and try to think instead about that man I love so much who’s as dead as dead can be and see if maybe he’ll come visit for little awhile. You never know. He might.

Have a good evening, gang. Wherever you are in the world. I love you. See ya.

“A Love Song”

There’s a wren in a willow wood
Flies so high and sings so good
And he brings to you what he sings to you

Like my brother — the wren and I,
Well, he told me if I try, I could fly for you
And I wanna try for you ’cause

[CHORUS]
I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

Summer thunder on moon-bright days
Northern Lights and skies ablaze
And I bring to you, lover, when I sing to you

Silver wings in a fiery sky
Show the trail of my love and I
Sing to you, love is what I bring to you

And I wanna sing to you, oh

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna sing you a love song
I wanna rock you in my arms all night long
I wanna get to know you
I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

I wanna show you the peaceful feelin’ of my home

c – 1974 Kenny Loggins, Donna Lyn George

2 thoughts on “Honestly, why doesn’t somebody just shoot her?”

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